


Love's Put Me At The Top Of The World

by popfly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Heaven, M/M, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, series coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27648646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly
Summary: Dean gets a Heaven that's made just for him, with love.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 39
Kudos: 250





	Love's Put Me At The Top Of The World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donnersun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donnersun/gifts).



> I'm not tagging this fix-it, because I don't think the finale needs to be fixed. And I want no salt or bitterness about it, please and thank you. 
> 
> Title from "Top of the World" by The Carpenters, because it feels fitting. 
> 
> Thank you to Gray and TINN for the 5 a.m. this-isn't-our-fandom-but-we-love-that-you're-writing encouragement, to Diva for the read through and reaction videos, to Neely for spoiling herself by reading AND doing a quick beta, and to Meg for the final nudge to post my FIRST EVER SUPERNATURAL FIC. Seven years after joining the fandom, that's gotta be a record, right?

There is no better place to process than behind the wheel of his Baby.

Bad case, bad fight with Sam, bad night at a bad bar, everything settles in his bones with the growl of the engine underneath him, steering wheel cool in his hands. The wind whipping through the windows clears the cobwebs from his mind and he can really think.

Dean dies, and goes to Heaven, and after Bobby plays welcome wagon Dean knows exactly what he wants to do.

The door creaks, and Dean grins to himself. Even in Heaven, which is fitting, because the sound is one of Dean’s favorites in the whole world. The squeak of Baby’s doors, the way Sam cackles when he really lets himself laugh, the gravel in Cas’ voice when he greets Dean—

Settling onto the worn bench seat, into the space that is made just for him, he thinks about getting to hear those other sounds again.

“He’ll be along,” Bobby had said. Dean can sense his brother, distantly, and he wonders if eventually he’ll be able to look down and see him. 

“Cas helped,” Bobby had said, and it hadn’t even been a shock. Dean knew Jack wouldn’t let Cas suffer in the Empty. It’s fitting that Cas is up here, helping his son—their son—build this beautiful place. 

As Dean drives, Kansas on the radio and dirt pluming up under Baby’s wheels, he processes.

So, he’s dead. He’s been dead before, in dumber ways, in more heroic ways. Seems fitting that the last time would be sort of mundane. At the end of a fight they were winning, at the hands of a monster but not necessarily monstrously. It had hurt, but when Dean tries to focus on the pain the memory of it skitters away from him. He can see Sammy’s tear-streaked face, but only as a promise of his brother going on to live. 

That’s what Dean wanted more than anything. For Sam to live. 

There’s no resentment. Of course he wouldn’t resent Sam, but Dean died fairly young, plenty of people would feel robbed. He doesn’t. As "Carry On" carries on to the bridge, Dean pokes at that for a second. He didn’t _want_ to die; he’s been in plenty of situations where he welcomed the thought, brought it on himself, this isn’t that.

He would have been fine going on living, but he’s not mad he’s dead. He’s not sad or bitter. Maybe it’s just the locale, not just the beautiful pine forest and the winding, open road but actual Heaven, that won’t let him feel it. But all he feels is peace.

Dean takes a deep breath, props his elbow on the door, and drives.

Right before the song ends, he eases his foot over to the brake pedal. He’s crossing a bridge, a little on the nose, but something inside him is telling him to stop. The view is gorgeous, and a swell of contentment rises in him, standing at the rail with the sun glinting on the water and the trees swaying in the nearly imperceptible breeze. 

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, turning. Sam looks like Dean left him, but softer. He smiles, and Dean grabs him for a hug. The one slightly jagged edge in Dean’s mind is smoothed away as he squeezes his brother tight. 

They stand on the bridge for a long while, just breathing in tandem. “I didn’t know for sure which you I was going to see,” Sam finally says. 

“Me neither,” Dean admits. He knows Sam lived to be an old man, terrible shaggy gray hair and all, that he had a son and named him Dean, that Eileen was still alive and well. He hadn’t watched in a strict sense, but he’d been able to see. He’d been there, in a way, in the way he told Sam he would be. 

“I don’t remember this place,” Sam says, looking around. Dean smiles. 

“It’s not a memory. Brand new,” he says, when Sam slants him one of his quizzical eyebrows. “The kid,” is all he says, and Sam nods. There are still some jagged edges, but Dean isn’t worried. They’ll all see each other soon. They have nothing but time. “Come on, let’s drive.”

Sam touches Baby’s dashboard with gentle fingers as Dean turns the key in the ignition. “Home sweet home,” he says, and Dean smiles.

Bobby is still out front of the roadhouse when Dean pulls up, and Sam angles out of the door before Dean even has Baby fully in park. Bobby stands for a hug, and Dean hangs back, eyes roving over the neon sign, the wooden slats of the wall. 

“I didn’t ask before, this your place?”

“No, idjit, it’s yours,” Bobby says. Sam takes the second chair on the porch, picks up Dean’s discarded beer. It’s still sweating condensation, despite the time since Dean left it there. But time works differently here, of course. Besides, beer should never go warm in Heaven. 

The roadhouse is a little rundown, a little dusty and grimy, and completely perfect. Dean opens the door and steps inside.

The lights flicker on as soon as he crosses the threshold, amber globes that hang over the bar and a big rectangle one advertising Margiekugel’s that swings low over the pool table. Dean runs his fingers over the back of the chairs, the vinyl of the barstools, the scarred wood of the bar itself. He’s just stepping behind it when he feels a presence behind him. It’s familiar but not, all at the same time, and he finds himself smiling as he turns. 

“Hello,” Jack says, hand lifted in his customary wave. He’s still wearing his white jacket, his jeans and his scuffed sneakers. Dean wants to hug him, but he doesn’t know if it’s appropriate. He moves forward to do it anyway. 

Jack’s arms come up stiffly, but they squeeze hard, which is exactly how he’d hugged back on Earth. There’s another jagged edge smoothed. 

“Hey kid,” Dean says before he lets go. He holds Jack at arm’s length, full dad-style. Jack’s face is beatific, hard to read as always. “You did good up here.”

The beatific face splits into a smile, and it’s the surprised pleased one Jack had given Dean so many times before. “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect.”

“I wanted to make it bigger, or cleaner, but Cas said—“ Jack had been looking around at the small, dusty room, but then his eyes dart back to Dean’s. Dean smiles, squeezes the kids shoulders. 

“Cas was right.”

Of course it was Cas. Every detail in the roadhouse is lovingly placed, plucked right out of Dean’s wildest dreams and made reality. 

“I can’t stay,” Jack says, and Dean flaps a hand. Of course he can’t, he has a heaven to run. “I wanted to be here when you arrived but we got caught up, there’s still so much to do.”

“Hey, no worries, alright? I made it, Sam made it, we’re good. Go do your thing.” 

Jack nods, and then he’s gone. 

After that the visitors are nonstop. Bobby and Sam come in, and Bobby plunks down on a barstool like it’s always been his and he doesn’t plan on leaving. Mom and Dad show up first, and Dean thinks they all should be crying as they reunite, and the joy he feels as he takes his mom in his arms does make his eyes prickle, but no tears fall. Dad and Sam start up a game of pool, and Mom loads the jukebox, and by the time the first song is over Ellen and Jo are there, and Ash, inspecting the place with critical eyes. Rufus wanders in and takes his place at Bobby’s side. 

When Charlie walks in, Dean rushes her so fast he thinks he’s going to knock her over. The otherworld version had been great, but the original is so much better, pulling out of Dean’s hug and punching his shoulder with a giant grin. She grabs Jo to join her in heckling Sam’s shooting, and Dean stands at the door and takes everything in. 

Full of people he loves, the place is transformed. It’s still dim and a little dirty, but it’s full of laughter, the sound of pool balls clacking and the Carpenters crooning, “Somethin’ in the wind has learned my name.”

There’s another sound, barely heard over the music and the din of conversation, but loud enough to make Dean’s breath catch in his throat. Wing beats, the rustle of a trenchcoat. Dean turns, and is immediately caught by wide blue eyes and messy black hair, the tentative tilt of a smile. 

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas,” Dean says, but he doesn’t know what else to say. There’s so much, it crowds up behind Dean’s teeth and he doesn’t know where to start. He grabs Cas for a hug, and it’s exactly the right thing to do. Cas smells like ozone, his shoulders are broad and warm under Dean’s hands, even through all the layers. The hug goes on a little longer than Dean usually lets them, and Dean closes his eyes, reveling in it. 

“Jack said you like the place,” Cas says as he finally draws back. There’s color cresting his cheekbones, and he averts his eyes. Dean is suddenly overwhelmed with love, the strongest wave of it he’s felt yet, and while it doesn’t quite smooth that last jagged edge in his mind, it comes close. 

“I love it. Cas, it’s perfect. Thank you.”

“I only helped. Jack is doing very well, he’s taking to his new powers like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” Cas stops, glances up at Dean. “You’d be proud of him.”

“I am proud of him.”

Cas nods, looks away again. “I just wanted to stop by and greet you, I know you’re busy.”

“You can’t stay for a drink?”

“I’m on duty,” Cas says. It’s such a humanism, something he’d seen in the procedurals he’d study so he could play agent with Dean and Sam, and it makes Dean smile. 

“Okay,” Dean says. But Cas doesn’t leave. His eyes make another slow round of the bar, finally landing on Dean’s. And if he’s not rushing off, then. “Hey, Cas. I wanted to thank you for what you did.”

Cas starts shaking his head, but Dean holds up his hand. Before Cas flaps away, Dean wants to get this out.

“What you said, it meant a lot to me. And I want you to know that it changed me, too. You changed me.”

Those wide blue eyes go even wider, fixed now on Dean’s. For the first time since Dean arrived in Heaven he feels a small twist of fear in his gut, but he continues on. 

“And if you still want it, the thing you thought you couldn’t have, well. Man, of course you can have it.”

“Dean,” Cas says, a helpless, hopeful sound. 

“I love you, too.”

There. The last jagged edge is finally smoothed over. Complete peace settles over Dean, as the jukebox flips to a Zeppelin song with perfect timing, with the laughter of his family at his back. Cas blinks a few times in rapid succession, and then he smiles. 

“You do,” he says, and Dean chuckles. Cas reaches out and touches his jaw, fingers light over Dean’s stubble. “You do.”

“I do,” Dean says.

They stand there for a moment, Cas’ thumb brushing gently across Dean’s cheek. “I can’t stay,” Cas says again, but he’s not pulling away yet. 

“I know. Duty. But you can come back?”

“Of course. As soon as I can.”

“I don’t know how people date in Heaven, but we could have a drink?”

Cas smiles, and now he pulls away. Something dark flickers behind him, not quite the shadow of wings but close to it. “I’d like that.”

“Good. See you later then.”

There’s a familiar whooshing noise, the faint flap of wings, and then Cas is gone. 

The only signs that anyone saw that exchange are Sam’s smirk as he lines up his next shot and Mom’s small grin. Everyone else is still occupied with their ice cold beers and their conversations. Dean slaps Bobby on the shoulder as he rounds the bar, and grabs up his dishrag.

The beer and whiskey flow freely all night, but no one has to stumble home. One of the many benefits of Heaven, Bobby tells him before he and Rufus make for the door. “No one needs the buzz, but they can get it if they want it.” Dean figured hangovers weren’t a thing up here, and he won’t miss the many bottles of generic painkillers that had littered the bunker. 

Speaking of.

“Where do we live?” Dean asks, when it’s down to just him and Sam and Charlie. The bar in front of them is littered with decimated wedges of lemon and lime, toothpicks and shredded napkins. Dean starts gathering the detritus.

“I have a place,” Charlie says. “It was sort of bare bones, but you can just _I Dream of Jeannie_ anything you want, basically. Within reason, of course.”

Sam quirks an eyebrow at her, as if he’s picturing what Charlie would wiggle her nose and procure. Dean wonders if Cas already built something for him, or if he should be thinking it up himself. 

“You probably have a house,” Charlie says to Sam, and of course, he probably does. He had a family who will be joining him eventually. Dean wants to say he can’t wait to meet his namesake, but he can of course. He wants his nephew to live a long, healthy life. 

“I do. I can sense it somehow.” Sam looks over at Dean. “What about you?”

Dean can’t sense it. He knows Baby is outside, and she’s good enough if there’s nowhere else. It’s not like he needs sleep, though he thinks he’d like to. It’s been so long since he’s gotten a full night of it without being knocked out or drugged up, it might be nice to see how it feels. “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”

“Could always come back to mine,” Charlie says. “I can finally teach you how to play Dungeons and Dragons.”

Then, the sound of wings. A breeze blows some of the napkin shreds onto the floor.

“Or not,” Charlie says, sly, and then turns to sling an arm around Cas’ shoulders. “Hey, dude. Just in time.”

Cas blinks down at her, and she laughs up into his face.

“Always good to see you, Cas.” She uses him to pull herself to her feet and then releases him, tossing her signature salute. “Peace out, bitches.”

“So you can curse in Heaven,” Sam says, and chuckles, unfolding himself from his barstool to wrap his long arms around Cas. “Hi Cas.”

“Hello, Sam.” Cas’ voice is warm, and he squeezes Sam as hard as Sam is squeezing him. Dean smiles to himself, wiping down glasses. 

“I’ll see you guys later,” Sam says, and heads for the door. 

“Later, Sammy,” Dean says, and then it’s just him and Cas.

“What did Charlie mean?”

Dean glances up from stacking glasses, and takes a moment to just appreciate Cas standing before him. Wrinkled trenchcoat, crooked tie, head tilted inquisitively. Dean feels warm and a little breathless, just looking at him. Not that he needs to breathe, but he likes it so he keeps doing it. He takes a deep breath now, blowing it out gustily. 

“We were talking about where everyone was going as they left. Charlie has a place, Sam could sense his house, but I didn’t know—“ Dean cuts himself off, spreads his hands. “This place, this and Baby and my family.” Dean drops his hands, rubs his palms on his thighs. “You. It’s more than I thought I would get.”

“I didn’t know—I knew a bar, a roadhouse. The specifics of that, I knew. And your car, of course. But I couldn’t decide on a home. Your childhood home didn’t feel right, though I know you loved mowing the lawn there. I wasn’t sure about the bunker, because it was home but it wasn’t perfect.” Cas looks unusually distraught, and Dean leans across the bar to grab the lapel of his coat. 

“Hey. Cas. It’s okay. You’re right. None of those would be quite right.”

Cas shifts closer, edging between two barstools so Dean doesn’t have to lean quite so far to touch him. He lets go of Cas’ coat and gets his fingers around Cas’ arm instead, slides over fabric and cuff button, wrist bone and rough skin until their fingers are linked, resting on top of the bar.

“I never let myself think of home as a place much. Not a home of my own. People have always been my home. My dad for a while, Bobby. Sam, of course.” Dean squeezes Cas’ hand. “You.” Cas ducks his head. “You knew me well enough to know that.”

“I did. I do.”

“I would love a TV though. I bet you can get anything on streaming up here.”

Cas laughs lightly, and rubs Dean’s thumb with his own. “Heaven has great wifi.”

Dean snorts, and lifts their joined hands to brush a kiss against Cas’ knuckles. It’s a gesture softer than Dean is used to dealing out, but it feels right in the moment. In this place. This space that Cas created for Dean to be happy in forever. 

“A big couch sounds nice too. Never ending supply of popcorn.”

“Several blankets?” Cas suggests, something coy in his voice that makes Dean’s unnecessary heartbeat kick up a notch. They’d had many a movie night in the bunker, and Cas had to endure Dean’s bitching about not having a blanket to wrap himself in. 

“Maybe just one, big enough for two people to fit under.”

Cas nods once, looking up at Dean from under his eyelashes, and then Dean can feel it. Staircase in the corner, behind the dingy wooden door, rooms above that call to Dean with the promise of home. 

“You off duty now?”

“I am.”

“Want a beer while I finish cleaning up?”

Cas doesn’t remind Dean that cleaning up can be done with a blink of his eye. He lets go of Dean’s hand and slides onto a barstool, clasping the cold pint glass Dean slides to him between his palms. Dean washes glasses and wipes down the bar, and Cas drinks and tells Dean stories about creating this Heaven. 

Then Dean turns out the lights and leads Cas up the narrow, creaky stairs. 

The apartment above is perfect, of course. Old, careworn, like Dean has lived comfortably in it for years. There are items in it Dean would have never thought of but love on sight: the rugged wood coffee table in front of the brown leather couch, the blue striped rug underneath. There are items from the bunker that he recognizes: the armchairs from the library tucked against one wall, their kitchen table jammed up against the counters. The TV is huge, and Cas glances shyly at it as he shrugs out of his trenchcoat and hangs it on the hooks next to the door. 

“Good?” He asks, and Dean smiles. 

“Perfect.”

There’s popcorn already popped in a metal bowl on the table, steaming and gleaming with butter. Dean will make the next batch, but it’s nice now to have it already made so that he can kick off his boots and flop onto the couch and not have to worry about it. Cas sits more gingerly, leaving half a cushion’s space between them, and places his hands on his knees. He’s still wearing his suit jacket. Dean can’t decide if he wants to snuggle him or wreck him. 

There’s time for both, he guesses. 

“Come here,” Dean says, and Cas looks back over his shoulder. Dean is sprawled in such a way that Cas could just tip over and be cuddled right up to Dean’s chest. Instead he shifts closer, back and down until he’s tentatively resting against Dean’s side. Dean sighs and hauls him in the rest of the way, Cas letting himself be manhandled into a better position. “There,” Dean says, when he’s got Cas’ hair tickling his chin, Cas’ thigh pressed to his. Cas’ arm hovers in the air for a moment before settling across Dean’s torso, and then it’s perfect.

“Did you still want to watch a movie?” Cas asks, voice rumbling in his throat. Dean can feel it in his chest, reverberating down through his belly, lower. 

“Mm,” Dean hums, and his eyes slip closed. It’s an odd sensation, not to be tired but to desire sleep. There are other things he desires, especially with Cas’ bright sharp smell in his nose, his body warm in Dean’s arms, but for now this is perfect. 

“Dean,” Cas says, fingers squeezing Dean’s side. “Is that a yes?”

Dean hums again. His mind is blissfully empty, washed clean in the way it only gets when he’s driving his Baby. There’s nothing but time and possibility, a long straightaway where he can really open her up, and it feels incredible. He turns his head just enough to press a kiss to Cas’ head, his hair soft and lush under Dean’s mouth. 

“If you make me choose, you won’t like it.” Dean’s never heard Cas’ voice so flirty. Or maybe he has but he wasn’t able to parse it before. Now he can, and the delight it causes warms Dean down to his toes. 

“Alright,” Dean says, word muffled by Cas’ hair, and reaches out blindly for a remote. Of course it’s precisely within arm’s reach, and Dean instinctively knows how to power the massive television on, find what it is he wants to watch. 

Cas’ body jolts with a snort, and Dean can practically hear his eyes rolling as the grainy footage and the voiceover starts rolling. Dean smiles to himself, lets go of Cas long enough for him to snag the popcorn off the table before cuddling back in, and then settles back to watch _Tombstone_.

Dean drifts as the movie draws to a close, in a hazy daze of contentment, Cas’ chest rising and falling steadily against his own. When the credits roll the TV clicks off, leaving the room in darkness. There’s a big blanket stretched over both of them, the popcorn bowl back on the table, empty save the butter smears.

“If you want to sleep there’s a whole room made just for that down the hallway,” Cas says, and Dean smacks his lips, blinking into the dim light filtering in through the curtains. He wonders if it’s nighttime because he wants it to be, if it’s nighttime for Sam and Charlie, Bobby and Rufus, Mom and Dad. Then he stops wondering when Cas shifts against him, head lifting up and eyes shining even in the dark. “I upgraded your mattress slightly from the one you had in the bunker.”

“Did you,” Dean asks, and it sounds ridiculously suggestive without him even trying. Cas seems to agree, the sweep of his lashes as he lowers them soot-black wings of shadow on his pale cheeks. “Guess I should check that out.” Cas looks back up at Dean, and maybe Heaven gives you night vision, because the look of want on his face is so clear to Dean. It makes his throat tight, his eyes feel hot. “Wanna join me?”

“Yes,” Cas says, and then they extract themselves from the blanket and the deep cushions and get to their feet. 

The hallway is lined with frames, photos Dean doesn’t stop to look at yet. There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall, and even though that is also unnecessary Dean thinks he might enjoy the giant glass shower. The bedroom is larger than the one he had in the bunker. He spots his desk, his floor lamp, his favorite sawed-off mounted on the wall. There’s a fancy looking stereo that also has a tape deck, and if he wasn’t so distracted by the enormous bed and all the implications of it, he’d be overwhelmed with love and gratitude for Cas, who somehow crafted this space in the blink of an eye and knew how to make it perfect even when Dean didn’t know. 

Dean sits on the edge of the bed, giving it an experimental bounce, and feels his eyebrows fly up. Cas is still standing in the doorway, and he smiles. “See?” He says, and Dean laughs. 

“I knew you weren’t lying, but damn, man.” He can’t wait to stretch out on this thing. But first. “Come here.”

Cas steps forward, haltingly, like he’s unsure. Dean reaches out for him as soon as he’s close enough, closes his fist around the open edge of his suit jacket. He slides his other hand under it, around to where Cas’ shirt is rumpled at the small of his back. He tugs at it until the tail is untucked, and then nudges his fingers under it until they touch warm, bare skin. Cas sucks in a breath, moving further into the vee of Dean’s spread thighs, until he’s so close Dean can lean forward and rest his forehead against Cas’ torso. 

“Thank you,” Dean says, suddenly overwhelmed. By gratitude, by happiness, by love. He never let himself dream he could ever have something like this. Heaven. A heaven made for him. Love like this. Never in his wildest, most hopeful dreams. 

There are tentative fingers in his hair, smoothing over the crown of his head, getting more sure as they go until they’re gripping firmly around the nape of his neck. “You’re welcome,” Cas whispers down at him. 

Cas lets Dean shove the suit jacket off his shoulders, tug the tie loose until Cas can lift it over his head. They work on his shirt buttons together, Dean from the bottom and Cas from the top until their fingers meet in the middle and they smile helplessly at each other. Cas’ stomach is smooth, a dark line of hair under his navel that makes Dean’s mouth water. His chest is warm and firm as Dean skims it with his palms, getting the shirt open and then off. 

Dean gathers Cas close again, his mouth open against Cas’ skin. They haven’t even kissed properly yet, and suddenly Dean is desperate for it. He surges to his feet, catches Cas’ face in both his hands, and presses in. 

The gasp that Cas gives as their mouths connect is delicious, but the feel of his lips under Dean’s is even better. They’re slightly chapped, but so plush, and Dean spends a long time just exploring the shape of them with his own. He doesn’t need to break the kiss to breathe, but he wants to anyway, the cadence of it natural to him. Pulling back lets him see Cas’ face, the redness on his chin where Dean’s stubble rubbed, the blown-wide black of his pupils. 

“Dean,” Cas says, his voice scraping out of his throat. Dean leans in to kiss him again.

Every single thing, every noise, every sensation, makes Dean think, “Enough.” But somehow he gets more. He gets to slide his palm down the length of Cas’ spine, feel the way it bows as Cas arches into Dean’s body. He gets to nip the precise bow of Cas’ upper lip and breathe in the hitching gasp of Cas’ breath. He gets to nudge a thigh between Cas’, up until he feels the hard length of him trapped inside his pants. 

“Fuck,” Dean says, dragging his mouth along Cas’ bristly cheek. The word feels holy in this moment, with Cas rocking against him, Cas’ hands gripped tight in Dean’s shirt. 

Then Dean’s shirt is gone, all of his upper layers are, and he can’t remember how. Maybe Cas blinked them away. It doesn’t matter, not when Dean can feel the way Cas’ stomach trembles against his without any barriers. 

Spreading out on the mattress is just as good as Dean thought it would be, better even, because he’s blanketed by Cas’ body as he goes. Cas holds him down with his hands, his hips, his mouth, bracketing Dean’s body with his elbows and his knees. There’s no danger in this Heaven, so safety is relative, but that’s what Dean feels under Cas: Safe. Held. Loved.

He also feels greedy, and attempts his own _I Dream of Jeannie_ moment. For his first try it’s not bad; his socks are gone and so are Cas’, Cas’ bare toes trying valiantly to get under the hem of Dean’s jeans. Dean tries again and there, now they’re both completely naked, Cas’ erection riding the groove of Dean’s thigh until he twists his hips and suddenly it’s right next to Dean’s, leaving a trail of slick in its wake and slipping messily against Dean’s belly.

“Fuck,” Dean says again, even more reverently this time, both hands in Cas’ hair as Cas sucks kisses down Dean’s throat. The drag of their dicks together is so good, electric and pulsing, pleasure driving hot right through his core. Cas’ hips move in hectic circles, inexperience blasted away by instinct as the motion smooths and slows, until it’s a long, rolling grind that has Dean panting up at the ceiling. Cas’ mouth is a severe counterpoint, latching on to Dean’s collarbone and pulling up a throbbing bruise. It’s pain Dean enjoys, which is why he supposes it’s allowed, and he’s glad for it, especially when Cas gives the mark a sharp nip.

Dean hauls him up for a kiss, making it just as bruising and biting, and slides one hand down to Cas’ ass, holding them tightly together. It’s perfect, inelegant friction, and Dean is so close from it already. There’s tension in Cas’ shoulders that tell Dean he’s probably just as on edge, which brings Dean even closer, just the thought that he’ll get to see Cas come, feel it rush through him, feel it on his skin.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean growls into their kiss, tightening his grip in Cas’ hair. He nips at Cas’ mouth, licks across the marks he leaves behind. “Wanna feel you come.”

“Dean,” Cas says, pitched deeper than Dean has ever heard before. It’s a curse, it’s a prayer, it’s a groan as Cas’ body shudders on top of Dean’s. The way Cas’ dick pulses, wet warmth making Dean glide easier against him, is all it takes. Dean comes so hard his vision goes white at the edges, or maybe that’s light coming off of Cas, Dean doesn’t know. All he knows is pleasure so pure it’s like fire, burning through him until he’s boneless and limp on the bed.

Cas’ weight is not inconsiderable, but it’s good. It’s so good. It grounds Dean to the mattress, into the memory foam that somehow already remembers him. They’re sticky just long enough for Dean to enjoy the visceral realness of it, and then it’s gone. Cas’ hair is sweat damp at the temples, spikes of it clumped to his cheek, and it stays that way long enough for Dean to press his mouth there and taste the salt of it, and then it’s clean and dry again, back to looking artfully windswept. 

The bruise on Dean’s collarbone stays, throbbing gently, warmer than the skin around it.

“Hey,” Dean says, nosing at Cas’ cheek until Cas lifts his face. He blinks dazedly at Dean, and Dean takes a moment to be very smug at making this angel look so orgasm-stupid. Then he says, “I love you.”

The smile that spreads across Cas’ face is blinding. “I love you, too.”

Sleep in Heaven isn’t like sleep on Earth. It’s a choice more than a necessity, and it’s sudden and deep. Dean wakes in the morning to an empty bed, covers pulled up to his chin. He’s wearing a henley and a pair of flannel pants, which he doesn’t remember putting on the night before. He knows it was Cas, just as he knows that Cas kissed Dean’s cheek before he left, off to help Jack with more heavenly business. Just as he knows that somewhere Sam is running through a pine forest, along a river; Mom and Dad are at their kitchen table eating scrambled eggs. Dean sits up, marveling at the lack of back pain, the lack of tightness in his hips. His body feels better than it has in years. Better than it has ever.

He reaches up and touches the bruise on his collarbone, pressing it lightly with his fingertips. It still hurts. He smiles.

His robe is flung over his desk chair and there’s coffee perking in the kitchen. It’s good coffee, too, strong but not too bitter. He sits at the kitchen table and drinks it, staring off into space and replaying the night before in his head.

It’s a great morning. And he knows it’s going to be a great day. And despite the newness, the oddity of it, he doesn’t feel daunted by the prospect of neverending awesomeness. He just feels excited. Ready.

Worthy.

That might be the oddest feeling of them all.

On Earth it might be too early to open a roadhouse for the day, but in Heaven it’s exactly the right time. As soon as the neon buzzes to life the door swings open. It’s Sam, and—

“No way!” Dean exclaims, rushing around the bar and dropping to his knees, getting an armful of wiggling fur.

“He was at the house last night. I was going to bring him over, but I figured, uh.” Dean looks up and sees Sam rubbing the back of his neck, sheepish. “Figured you’d be busy.”

“Ah.” Dean presses his flushed face to the scruff of Miracle’s neck. “Yeah, I was.”

“Oh good, you found him.” Jack steps through the door, still in his white jacket and his dirty sneakers. He looks like a college kid, except for the slight glow of holy light that limns his body. 

“Kid,” Dean says, and then has to clear his throat. “You really thought of everything.”

“I tried. I wanted to make you happy. I want everyone to be happy.”

Sam hooks his arm around Jack’s neck and hauls him into a hug.

“Jack,” Cas says, accompanied by the familiar sound of wingbeats. He spots Dean on the floor and flushes, and Dean smiles up at him, not caring how dopey he looks. It’s clear Cas came for Jack for some reason, but for a moment it doesn’t matter. They’re all here. His brother, his best friend—more, now, of course, and the kid they raised to rule the best Heaven anyone could ever create. Dean’s chest swells until it’s almost aching, and he hugs his dog—his Miracle—closer.

“This is the best,” he says, and everyone looks down at him, varying degrees of smile on their faces. “I’m so happy we’re all here.” Sam’s smile goes goofy, Cas’ goes soft, and Jack just straight up beams. “I love you all.”

“We love you, too,” Sam says, and then reaches down to help him up off the floor.


End file.
